Important and wealthy and famous, Honored and wise and great! But look you, who can that ragged tramp be, Down there by the garden gate, Pale as if hunger had pressed him sore, Trembling because so weak, Pushed on by his longing, held back by shame— A tear on his poor pale cheek?
'Tis he! Had he come back rich and great She'd have met him at the door, But she's down the path with her arms outspread, Because he has come back poor. Gone, gone are her day-dreams sweet and fair— Gone in the swift glad shock Of folding a ragged tramp in her arms, But love stands firm as a rock.
She rang the dinner bell long and loud, The father came with speed; The welcome he gave the prodigal Was a tender one indeed. "The young fool has learned his lesson," J. Thomas whispered low. "So he has—God bless him!" the father cried, "He'll make a good man, I know.
"Honest, unselfish, and true as steel, Our boy will stand the test; Kindly of thought and word and deed— The homely virtues are best. I knew when you went, and you know it now, That all this pride and style, This yearnin' to fill up the public eye, Isn't really worth the while."
Oh, the happy face of the mother That night as, kneeling low, Tom said the prayer that he used to say At her knee so long ago. A new J. Thomas had this to add— With his bonnie blue eyes wet— "Thank God for the home, for the faithful hearts That never change or forget."
Though far and wide on the world's rough sea The children, reckless, roam, The boldest thanks God in some stress of storm For the harbor lights of home.
THE PREACHER DOWN AT COLES.
He was not especially handsome, he was not especially smart, A great big lumbering fellow with a soft and tender heart. His eyes were gray and honest, his smile a friendly one, He wore his parson's suit of black on days of state alone; At other times he went around in clothes the worse of wear, A blue cloth cap set jauntily upon his thick gray hair. He cared so little how he looked, so little how he drest, That he tired the patience sorely of the ones he loved the best. For a preacher, so they argued, should be dressed like one, of course, But in the winter it was tweeds, in summer it was worse; Ducks and flannels would be grimy, if the sad truth must be told, For he spaded up the gardens of the people who were old, And he ran down dusty highways at unministerial rate, Going errands for the people who really could not wait. His coat-sleeves would be short an inch, his trousers just the same, For the washerwoman had them every week that ever came. He cared so little how he looked, and never paused to think That linen, duck, and flannel were such awful things to shrink.